Really
by itsLisey
Summary: “If I was drunk, could I do this?” He hops up and down on one foot, seemingly balanced, until his leg starts hurting, and he falls forward. We’re both on the ground, my body on the stairs and him on the wooden floor, sprawled out.


**House fluff. I've never written for House before… but I was really bored. Review and tell me what you think. I'm not really that impressed with it, but that's mostly because it's not a plot story, just a fluffy one-shot. **

**--**

"You can't deny her this transplant."

"You can't put a bulimic patient on the transplant list."

"I did, didn't I?"

"And now I'm denying it. Do you see how this works?" I enter my office, hoping, no, _praying, _that House walks back to his office and tries a new technique that will leave me out of it. The idea of not giving this girl a transplant is killing me, but ethically, I can do nothing. "House, I'm sorry. Figure out something else."

"There is nothing else, Cuddy. She needs a liver."

"And I need to go home and be with Rachel, who is sick, but I can't because I'm here. We all need something."

"I thought I was supposed to be the cold hearted bitch?" House says, leaning on his cane a little bit. What he says hurts, but when does what he say do anything other than that?

"You follow my monthly schedule well enough. Shouldn't you know that it's my time of the month?"

"That's not until next week, actually." Dammit. "When you lie, your left eyebrow twitches." I cross my arms and lean up against my desk. The patient is sixteen years old. Deep down, I want to give her the liver. I want to cut myself open just to give it to her. She's so young, and has such a full life ahead of her. I look at her, and I see Rachel.

"I'm sorry." I turn and wait for the door to shut, but I don't hear a click. Instead, I hear the low gravel of House's voice.

"What if it was Rachel?"

"Don't." I immediately say. "Don't bring Rachel into this."

"Why not?" House smiles a little and takes a seat into one of the plush chairs in front of my desk. "Let's talk about your little bundle of sunshine, the apple of your eye, the fruit of your loins. Oh, wait. You adopted her. Technically, she's the fruit of someone else's loins." He knows he hits a sore spot every time he brings up Rachel. I love her, and I love her more than my own life, but biologically, her DNA is not mine. It shouldn't matter, I tell myself. But it does. "Come on, Cuddy. Think about it. Rachel, sixteen years old. The flowing, sandy brown hair of her biological mother falling down her back, her biological fathers blue eyes all full of sparkling teenage life."

"You're an ass," I hiss.

"But, uh oh," he continues. "Rachel is sick. Her biological parents had addiction problems, and Rachel starts drinking. Bye bye Liver," House stands, and there is a vision in my head of a time where he would reach into his pocket, pull out a bottle and slip two tablets into his mouth. He's an ass with or without the pain killers. "Rachel needs a liver transplant, but she can't get one. She's an alcoholic. That puts her at the very bottom of the list. What are you going to do?"

"This is completely different," I'm fighting back tears. "That girl is not my daughter."

"Is Rachel?"

"Screw you, House."

"That girl is someone's daughter,"

"Since when do you care?" I yell.

"She's my patient," he replies calmly. "Aren't I supposed to care, mommy?"

"You have _never _cared about the patient, House. You care about the diagnosis, which, I might add; you don't even have one for her. You're asking me to put a girl on the transplant list that not only has an eating disorder, but also is possibly incurable. Give me a diagnosis, a cure, and then maybe, if you can prove to the ethics committee that she's _not _bulimic, that she's _not _going to continue with her bulimia, then who knows. You'll more than likely get the same answer, House."

"Tell me something," House walks closer to me, his eyes looking into mine. "If it was Rachel, what would you do?" Breathe in, breathe out. I hate when House does this to me. We're inches apart.

"I don't know." I say quietly, looking away from him. "It won't be."

"She has a mom," House mumbles. "A dad, a little sister."

"She has bulimia," My voice falters. Who am I trying to stand up to? House, or myself? "Go, House."

"Check tomorrows obituaries for the funeral service information," He backs away and heads towards the door. "I'm sure her parents will want the woman who killed their daughter to pay some last respects."

He's gone.

--

The house is quiet for once. Lucas is upstairs, asleep, and I feel a shot of relief travel up my body. He wants to know about my day, always, and what do I tell him? That House makes me cry daily, that I had to let a sixteen year old girl die? What does that bring to our relationship, other than depression?

The nursery door to Rachel's room is open and I look in. She looks beautiful, her hair in that sleepy mess and her eyes closed. I run my fingers across her arm and pull her blanket up a bit. Every night, I come in here and watch her sleep. The way everything in her world is so simple… I envy. She doesn't have a hospital to run, or House to watch over.

Damn, shouldn't I be done watching over House? Can't he be a big boy and grow up? Be a real doctor? Can he try being responsible and mature, just for a few minutes in every patients time in the hospital? No, he can't. That's not House. Who am I kidding?

My feet slide across the wooden floors. It feels like, for just a moment, I am flying. It's a nice feeling, a feeling of weightlessness, but that all ends. The porch light illuminates the face of a man peering in the tiny glass pane of my front door. House stands there, his eyes reflecting the falling flakes of snow in the background, staring at me with such perplexity. A single finger of mine loops around the door knob and pulls it open.

"What?" I say.

"How's Rachel?" he mumbles, not making any eye contact any more.

"What?" I stutter.

"You said she was sick,"

"Yes,"

"I wanted to know if she's feeling any better."

"House-"

"Can I?" he points to the foyer of my house and steps in, sans cane.

"Are you drunk?" I ask quietly, hoping that Lucas doesn't wake up.

"If I was drunk, could I do this?" He hops up and down on one foot, seemingly balanced, until his leg starts hurting, and he falls forward. We're both on the ground, my body on the stairs and him on the wooden floor, sprawled out. Please, I think, don't wake up, Rachel. Don't wake up.

"You can't do it sober, so how do I know if you can do it drunk?" I take a deep breath and exhale, hoping to regain some of the breath that was knocked out of me when I fell on the stairs. House struggles to get up, and I take his hand and pull him onto the stairs. He's sitting next to me, brushing some of the dirt he tracked in on his boots off of his pants, where it relocated after he fell. "Rachel is fine. She's sleeping." I say.

"Good."

"Is that all?"

"I could sue you,"

"For what?" I exasperate.

"I fell in your house."

"After jumping up and down on one leg,"

"Technicality."

"I'm tired, House."

"Let's go to bed, then."

"_Excuse _me?" My mouth drops.

"Sorry, was that too forward?"

"Uh," No. "Considering I'm your boss, yes. Lucas is upstairs."

"Ah, Lucas. Pretty boy. How is he in bed, anyway?"

"Leave, House."

"I love what you've done with the living room,"

"Leave. Now."

"It's very you."

"Go."

"In fact, the only thing that's not very you in this house is what's lying in your bed."

"Did I ask for your opinion on my relationship?"

"Have I ever needed to be asked? Personally, I think Lucas is a bit dry. You never did answer the sex question, so that could go in more way than one. What do you see in him?"

"He loves Rachel."

"Does he love you?"

"House, just go."

"The girl? She's dead, Cuddy. Two months ago, before Lucas came along, you wouldn't have let that happen. You would have fought. She died a half hour ago. Did you know that? You didn't, because you came home to him. You've changed,"

"I have not!" Defensive may not be the best way to go with this.

"Prove it." He says. "Kiss me."

"How," I growl. "does that prove anything?"

"Because if you haven't changed," he responds, leaning closer. "That means you're still in love with me."

I don't know what to say to that. He sits there with the audacity to say that I'm in love with him, that I've changed, and he thinks I'm going to kiss him. What surprises me, though, is not that he accuses me of these things, but that I find them to be true. Lucas might love Rachel, and he might love me, but I don't love him. I love him for loving Rachel. That's not going to be enough, and I know that. I've known that since day one. My hand traces House's hand, runs up his arm and to his broad shoulders. My other hand comes to his face, two fingers lightly skimming across the stubble of his beard.

"A girl is dead tonight," I whisper. "It's because of me." He doesn't say anything. "House, I don't know what to do here. We've tried this. We've been here."

"I'm ready."

"I have Rachel,"

"I know."

"You hate kids,"

"According to Wilson," House says, cupping my cheek with his band. "I'm in love with you, and when you love someone, you accept everything that comes with that person."

"Wilson has been married five times,"

"I never said he's not full of shit," I laugh. "I'm just repeating what he said."

"Kiss me." He does. I fall backwards onto the stairs, and even though it's quite possibly the most uncomfortable position I've ever been in, the burning on my lips from House's overcomes every sensation. Tingles run up my spine and cause me to shiver. He pulls away and picks me up, struggling just slightly with his leg. I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing his lips just one more time before he tosses me backwards onto the couch. I feel him lifting up my shirt, his fingers pressing lightly against my stomach. We're moving together. Our lips, our hips, every part of our body turn into one. We're breathless under a fleece blanket on the back of my couch. He kisses my neck, my collarbone, and then kisses the palm of my hand.

"Do I get a raise for that?"

"You already got a raise," I say slyly, closing my eyes and falling into a sleep.

--

"Cuddy, wake up."

I open my eyes. House is dressed, sitting on the edge of the couch and as far away from me as possible. Lucas stands on the far end of the room, a suitcase in one hand and his jacket in the other.

"Shit," I mumble, searching desperately for discarded clothing.

"It's not like we haven't seen what you're trying to hide," Lucas says coldly. I wrap the blanket around me a few times and look sheepishly down to the ground. I can feel both of their eyes staring at me, and one of them clears his throat. It's House.

"I think I'll go check on Rachel," he says awkwardly. It makes me a little nervous, I admit. House with a child doesn't seem right, nor does House with _my _child seem right.

"Don't touch her," Lucas says, a glisten of violence in his eyes. "I'm leaving, Cuddy."

"Lucas," I say quickly. "I'm sorry."

"Save it." He slips his jacket on. "You have this last chance. Make up your mind. Is it me, or is it him? I'm not coming back once I leave here. Will I look back? Yeah, I will, but only to see that Rachel is okay. Make your decision. Me or him?"

"House," I even stun myself. House looks shocked. Lucas looks angry. He picks up his suitcase and walks out the door without another word. I turn to House. "I need to check on Rachel,"

"I'll help," He looks back at the closed door.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Ok." I smile. We walk into the nursery, and he grabs my arm and whispers in my ear.

"Can I get another raise?"

"I don't know," I sigh, "We'll have to have a meeting about it on Monday. Schedule an appointment with my secretary."

--

**Review?**


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